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It’s hard enough to get any sleep in the hospital, and these nightmares don’t help.

It’s been five days since the night the knife-wielding psycho fan tried to attack Jade, and it’s all been a whirlwind.

One cross-country flight, thanks to Atlas, my controlling and overprotective billionaire best friend.

Surgery to replace the hip I fractured when I hit the table on my way down, with the full weight of that idiot on top of me.

A boot to help the ankle I twisted when I landed.

And more MRIs and CT scans than I’ve ever had in my life to make sure there’s no brain damage from the concussion I got in addition to everything else.

Brain damage.

Ha.

Four years of college hockey probably took care of that.

But everyone is determined to make sure I get the very best care.

I appreciate it. I do. It’s just not easy for a man like me to be in a position where I have to ask for help. Ask if I can go to the bathroom by myself. Have a nurse give me a sponge bath. It’s maddening.

I’m in a private wing of the hospital, because Atlas—along with my sister—insisted, and there are only a total of twelve rooms on this floor. All special cases with special medical needs.

It’s irritating as fuck.

Two nurses move down the hall chattering away, like it’s not two in the goddamn morning, and I let out a huff of frustration. I know they have a job to do, but is it too much to ask to give us—the patients—some peace and quiet so we can rest?

Apparently it is.

I sit up and reach for the walker I hate.

I’m supposed to be moving around as much as possible but I can’t do it without the walker, and using a walker sucks. Between the new hip and the hit to the head, they don’t want me to fall, and though it grates on both my nerves and my pride, I don’t want to do anything that might keep me in this medical prison any longer than necessary.

I make my way to the bathroom and take care of business.

Then I carefully pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I slide my feet into the rubber-soled slippers my sister brought me, grab the damn walker, and take a tentative step. The hip feels pretty good, all things considered, but I still hate that I’m twenty-eight years old and had to have a fucking hip replacement.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be like I was before, and that’s not acceptable.

Two tours in Iraq and I never got so much as a hangnail.

One night protecting country superstar Jade Cantrell—who happens to be engaged to my buddy Royal—and I might not be able to do what I do.

Fuck.

I clomp into the hallway, determined to wear myself out so maybe I can sleep for a few hours. I look left and right, trying to decide which way to go.

There are more rooms on the right since I’m one room from the end of the hallway, so I head in that direction. I feel like a decrepit old man, but at least I can walk. The orthopedic specialist that Atlas brought in told me once I heal and get through physical therapy, I’ll be able to do anything I want.

Except—the more I do, the sooner I’ll need to replace the hip again.

There’s no cut and dried timeline, but if I run five miles every day, and push my body physically, I’ll need another new hip in less than ten years. If I focus more on weight training and low-impact cardio, it could last me twice as long.

In my lifetime, I’ll need at least two more.

I think that’s the part I’m struggling with. Knowing that this hip isn’t going to last forever. That I’ll always have to be cognizant of my limitations.

I run an elite security and bodyguard firm that caters to the rich and famous—and they’re not going to hire a guy with limitations.